


One Who Digs His Grave With His Teeth

by das_kabinett (attentat)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Food Issues, Going to Hell, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-27
Updated: 2007-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attentat/pseuds/das_kabinett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been having nightmares about a demon gourmet with a taste for human flesh, Dean's got a secret he wants to hide, and they both got problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the first half of season two and then it goes minorly AU.

_A glutton is one who digs his grave with his teeth. -- French Proverb._

"Your names, sir?"

"I'm Ian Curtis and this--" Dean nodded at Sam, smiling wide, doing his best to get that particular trust-me tilt to his head that his brother was so very good at. By the tight frown filling up the clerk's face, it wasn't working.

"--is my brother, Jamie Lee."

And now they were both scowling at him. Brother and stranger united in their petty annoyance; Dean felt strangely peaceful.

The clerk took their IDs and examined them carefully. While he was looking down, Sam hit Dean on the side of the head. Dean made a face, but didn't hit back.

"Very well," the clerk said, handing back the IDs and another few thin plastic cards. "Your keys."

This dude took himself very seriously for working at a shitty Best Western. Dean didn't like him -- he was too smug and faintly greasy. He was probably a college student or something. There were a lot of schools in Massachusetts, even in little towns like this one. Smartasses, the lot of them. They tromped up to their room and threw their stuff inside, casually going through the routine-- until Dean got hit for the second time in as many minutes. Well, that was sort of routine, but not in a good way.

"Hey!"

"Ian and Jamie Lee Curtis? When did you get those made?" Sam paused to open a bag of Frito's with his teeth, fishing one out. "And why? Why would you _ever_?"

Dean shrugged, grinning. "You're good at screaming and I'm good at--"

"Killing yourself?" Sam's voice was sharp and sort of wobbly at the edges. He ate his second Frito and then set down the bag entirely, sitting on the bed. Dean stopped chuckling for a moment and looked hard at him. Huh. Sam had been looking steadily more exhausted with each day, but now he looked downright frail -- almost brittle, as though he'd shatter if Dean bumped him.

"New Order totally did your sort of girly-emo-man-pain rock. I'd have thought you'd be into them." Dean brushed his hand across Sam's back and watched his muscles follow the touch with a shudder.

"Yeah, but man, it's fucking morbid."

Sam was unpacking their weapons -- big honking battle axes, stakes, swords, guns. In his hand, though, as he was speaking, was a large bone of some sort of demon they killed in Nevada. Apparently the ugly bastard had immense magical properties -- they were planning on dropping the bits of him they kept with Missouri when they saw her.

"Yeah," Dean said, with a snort. "Gruesome."

\---

They were in Amherst for a standard operating exorcism. Easy. Straightforward. Probably something they could both do in their sleep, which was good, because Sam was sleeping an absurd amount lately and moving as if he was still dreaming even when he was awake. The exorcism was something that they wouldn't need to reference the journal for. Dean didn't want to open it. Seven weeks later and still way too soon.

He took a too large sip of coffee, drawing attention away from his own broody thoughts and the bitter snap of the cold every time someone opened the door.

"They said the girl was at the hospital, right?"

"Yeah. At least according to the papers."

The waitress came by to get their food orders, filling up Dean's cup of coffee, smacking on her gum. "What can I get you, sweetheart?"

She had a deep southern accent; Dean raised his eyebrows and glanced outside. Yeah, still Massachusetts. Must be a diner thing.

"I'm not hungry," Sam said.

"Pea soup for him," Dean said. "And I'd like an omelet. With ham and cheddar and a whole bunch of mushrooms."

"Home fries and grits?"

"You betcha."

"I'll be right back with y'alls food. Holler if you need anythin' else."

Dean watched her saunter away -- too much hip, heels and hair. Blond out of a bottle.

"Pea soup?"

"You need to eat and hey, fitting. Just don't puke it on me." Dean noticed there were hairy men sitting at the the counter, drinking coffee, comparing tats and were they were gonna drive next. Patsy was playing on the radio -- a second ago it was Loretta. "Do you ever wonder if we step into like, another dimension when we go into one of these places? Like, a diner dimension. They are all the same."

"I don't need to eat because I'm not hungry! Especially not for something we both associate with vomit."

"You know? 'Cause it's weird. Looks the same," Dean said, considering, looking around the diner. There was a bowling trophy on the wall. He bounced a little in his seat, the red plastic hard and just this side of uncomfortable. "Feels the same. Huh. _Christo._."

Nothing happened. Well, at least it wasn't a hell dimension. Dean shook his head and turned his full attention back to Sam. He was smiling at Dean, his face soft. A lot of the lines Dean had gotten used to seeing were smoothed out with amusement.

"What?" Dean snapped, scowling to hide his smile.

"Just wondering when you went off the deep-end."

"1982-ish? I've set up a nice, aquatic home there."

A shadow crossed Sam's face and he went all frown-y again. Dean felt like he probably shouldn't've brought up things best forgotten, but Sam had a lotta buttons lately. Dean couldn't seem to gather enough energy in order to care all that much about pushing this particular one. Also, omelet.

"Here you go, sugar."

"Thank you ma'am," he said, favoring her with teeth. She smiled back, but it was motherly. No tail in the offering here.

Sam took a bit of his soup into his spoon and just held it, staring as if he's forgotten what to do.

Dean was halfway through his omelet. It was good, too.

"Okay, so, business? Where we going?"

Sam set down his spoon. "The hospital is around ten minutes from here. I know the way."

The door opened, _ting ting ting_ , and there was another burst of arctic air. "Yeah, we're so driving."

"We should probably try to conserve --"

"I value my balls, Sammy. We're driving."

And that was the end of that -- Dean wasn't going to let him walk, not when Sam's face was whiter than the shirt he was wearing. The shirt he managed to stain green after exactly no bites of pea soup.

\---

"Uncles," Sam said, with a straight face. "We heard the news and --"

"Tragic," Dean said, shaking his head.

"Very tragic news, yes, but--."

"An altogether tragic situation," Dean said, solemnly. Sam kicked him.

The nurse wasn't really paying attention. She had a kind, round face, but she moved quick and tense and sharp, filling out a mound of paperwork.

"I'm sorry, sir. You can't go in; Linda Germann can't have visitors."

"Linda is very--"

"I'm _sorry_ , but it isn't happening."

"Thanks anyway." Sam turned to go, one hand heavy on Dean's arm as he dragged him back to the seats in the waiting room.

"Poor little Linda," Dean sighed. "Tragic."

"Shut up," Sam said, grabbing the dufflebag and shooing Dean back toward the counter.

"Told you it wouldn't work." Dean sounded gleeful.

"Shut up!"

Dean grinned and leaned over the counter again, shooting a look over his shoulder in order to wink at Sam. "Sorry to bother you again, ma'am, but can I use a bathroom before we go?"

"Sure," she said, glancing up. "It's over there."

She pointed and he smiled. She smiled back, genuine and faintly surprised; a lot of people came through the hospital each day, harping on her case, worrying about family. She was almost pretty when she smiled like that, though, even under all that make up. All she had to do was look away from the computer.

But she didn't look away from it for very long – not a moment later but she was working again. Dean and Sam went to the bathroom and locked the door behind them.

"Hot date?" Sam asked, with an odd note to his voice.

"Yeah. After we get all hot and sweaty beating a demon out of a little girl, I'm gonna bend the receptionist over in the organ storage room."

"Sounds like a plan," Sam said, pulling off his tee shirt. He'd already stepped into a pair of dress pants, his former clothing in a little pile on the floor. He buttoned up a dress shirt and grabbed a tie, before bending down to pick up the clothing and stuffing them back into the bag. Dean fussed with his cuffs, bending his arm in an odd direction in order to more effectively button.

"Casanova, that's me. Don Juan. John Shaft. Uh--"

"Bill Clinton?" Sam offered.

Dean barked a laugh before hip-checking Sam out of the way of the mirror.

Goddamn tie. Dean frowned at it, hands feeling too large and unwieldy to tie a good looking knot. He hated dressing nice, hated fancy to-dos and high manners. Dean felt like a snake shedding his skin, leaving the touch and comfortable old pieces for new duds, soft and raw and unable to protect him. He didn't fit in and the attempt made him feel graceless and as awkward as a leggy teenager, like Sam that one year when he grew six inches in as many months. Something fundamental in him objected to trying when there was no way to succeed; eventually, he just gave up on social niceties. Sam thought he was an idiot, but there it was. Dean wasn't changing.

Sam batted his hands away. "Moron."

Dean. "Pansy-ass."

Sam. "Jerk."

He finished the tie, patting him roughly on the shoulder. It was probably supposed to be friendly, but Sam's hand landed heavily on a bruise from a Cuisine Art that last week's poltergeist had tossed at him, causing Dean to wince and flinch away.

Sam pursed his lips and stepped back, leaving Dean feeling cold and silly for regretting a natural physical reaction to pain. Sam shrugged on a lab coat, straightening the name. Dr. Curtis.

Dean's said Dr. Spears. He supposed that was fair payback.

Sam got out the EMF reader and turned it on, getting a reading.

"She's close."

"Thank god. I'm not sure how long I'd be able to sell that thing as an alternative therapy or something. Maybe I can pretend they took you in as part of a tax-break thing-- you know, like Walmart hires retards?"

"That's funny." Sam sounded troubled.

"I know, I'm a --"

"Not funny ha-ha, funny-weird. The EMF reader is like, pulsing. The reading is getting steadily stronger."

"Right," Dean said, steeling himself for business. "That'd be our cue to find Linda, then, wouldn't it?"

"Unless we want her to pop like in Alien and have a demon come out," Sam said, cheerfully.

Dean paused. "I don't think they do that. Did you read anything that said this one would do that?"

Dean hated that movie so much. No, seriously. It had given him nightmares for weeks and Sam had laughed so fucking hard that Dean was still bitter. Apparently, he could deal with demons, but aliens freaked him the fuck out.

"Maybe," Sam said, shooting him a snotty little grin that made Dean think that the cocksucker knew exactly what he was referring to.

"I hate you so much," Dean said, but he was grinning. It was sort of nice to see Sam goofy and teasing, even though it was at his expense.

"Let's go!" Sam said, slapping him on the back and slipping out of the rest room, straightening his shoulders underneath the white coat and striding out a bit more; Sam was always good at fitting in, faking being official. Dean never really had to learn, as people tended to trust the pretty ones and he had always been a charming child.

Dean followed, in his usual saunter, and smiled at a passing nurse.

\---

Linda looked sickly pale underneath her dark skin, like a plant flirting with death and yet still bright green. Her hair was back in little cornrows and her small face scrunched up, even as she slept. The bed was too big for her and she shifted, violently against her restraints as they entered, throwing herself toward them and causing the whole bed to creak and and grown. She moved like there was a literal creature with in her and it was shuddering off its skin.

Dean shut and locked the door and Sam calmly did the curtain.

"No wonder we had so much trouble getting everyone to think that we were her uncles."

"It's perfectly reasonable for a multicultural--"

The girl's eyes snapped open and she froze. Dean was just as still, save for his hand slipping underneath his lab coat.

"Christo," Sam whispered.

The girl's eyes turned black.

"Winchesters," it said. "Sam and Dean Winchester."

"Yeah, she's possessed," Dean said, grimacing. He took out the gun and trained it on her.

"No shit, sherlock."

The entire room smelled of her; it wasn't anti-septic-hospital or even the usual demonic-sulfur, but musty and hot, like a fire that had been burning a long time and only now spread beyond the hearth in order to devour the rotting home. It was oppressive and too hot – even the lights seemed a little lower, like the demon's black eyes were sucking the photons from the air.

"I recognize the taste of you two. Especially you, Sam – you've been a lovely night-cap these past few weeks. You taste like Girl Scout cookies, sweet and familiar and oh-so-square. But I don't even need my late night snack, to be honest –I just dined sowell on your father's soul. _Slurped_ it down like bone marrow and then we _did_ suck on his bones, roasted them slow and seasoned with oil and rosemary. That was so good we grew them back and did it again. A good recipe – I recommend you try it. An old pope taught it to me." She had an awful, inhuman voice. It sounded wet, like the sound was scraping pieces of her throat as she spoke, bloody and fleshy and wrong. "It was a rare treat. And ironic, too – a good man suffers all the worse when he gives himself to hell."

"Get a fucking move on, Sam!" Dean was trying not to growl, but everything he had was standing on end and his trigger finger was getting antsy. This cute little black girl, probably around twelve, didn't deserve to die because of the demon in her.

"Yes, move, Sam – wouldn't want to join me for tea, would you? Except of course you would. You burn to come to hell to rescue Daddy-Dearest. Which is funny. Most people are all big into the heaven thing, but not you, Sam Winchester. You beg to come for a little visit – don't worry. We'll lay out the welcome mat."

Sam stumbled into the exorcism ritual, slurring his vowels into elisions like a native speaker and rushing through the parts he knew by heart. Dean pressed his lips together at the speed, displeased; the last thing they wanted was to screw this up and have to do it over again.

"Let you come in, do that Orpheus thing. Just avoid the pomegranates, which I'll tell you, will be a fucking bummer. They taste so good, especially when reduced with a little bit of champagne added in at the end. Gives gore a little bit of sweetness. And raw, mmm. They pop like eyeballs against the roof of your mouth."

Dean kept the revolver on the little girl strapped into the bed, his other hand holding a make-shift holy water hand grenade, but he watched Sam chant. He was leaning slightly against the locked door, his free hand scrabbling against the perfect white paint. His lips were red from being bitten and his face was flushed underneath the grimace, his breathing too quick. Dean suddenly had to look away, even though it was pain contorting Sam, not anything else.

The demon laughed suddenly, long and loud, and something fundamental in Dean cringed away, his hands going damp. He could hear Sam trip over the words a little and then resume chanting with more fervor then before, one hand going up to clutch at the rosary at his neck. There was something wrong about this demon. Something different – it shouldn't be laughing at the words of the ritual used to send it back to hell.

"Oh, that's a riot-- seriously, boys, I never would have expected it. I consider myself something of a gourmet, and that is a heady little aroma you're giving off, there, Dean. Bottle it and you'd make a fortune in hell. Normally, I'm not one for petty sins, you know – homosexuality, lust, incest. But in combina—"

Dean was consumed by panic and threw the holy water at the little girl, her skin boiling at the contact, grotesque blisters rising up starkly pale against the dark skin. The demon's laughter shifted into screaming, long and hoarse. Most of the water burned her and then dribbled off, puddling the area around the small body, which was already wet and stinking from urine. Her thin clothes were soaked in holy water, though, and the scent of burning flesh joined the already disgusting stench in the room.

She screamed and screamed and Sam faltered, looking at Dean for explanation. Normally they ignored the babblings of the demons and tried their best not to hurt the host, as the wounds wouldn't leave when the demon did. Holy water was particularly cruel.

After a moment, Sam started chanting again. They didn't have much time before a nurse came to check on the girl. The howls sneaked underneath Dean's skin, though they were far less painful to listen to than the speech, which Dean was praying fervently Sam had been unable to process.

The exorcism was taking too long, there was no way they would ignore the screams for much longer. Dean moved over to Sam and slipped the gun into his free hand, waiting until Sam seemed to realize he was holding it, before grimly marching over to the girl. Her screams were now interspersed with loud fits of coughing. Great, whooping coughs that shook her tiny body.

When Dean got closer, the screams died down, and the girl just groaned, keening little moans. Her eyes were clear and dark, without any of the drunk confusion that he typically associated with pain. They studied him and they were laughing, even as the demon bucked the girls hips up, protesting against the holy water and the holy words.

Dean ripped off the crucifix he had slipped around his neck that morning, in preparation for this job, and held it against her skin. It hissed and burned, creating great red sores in the shape of Jesus' body. Her eyes were still laughing.

"Dean," the demon hacked out, in between coughs. "Dean, I know you. I can taste it."

He calmly ripped off a piece of the bedsheet, still wet from water and smelling of pee.

"I used his intestines to make sausages and I made pâté from his liver that I'll use to spread on your bones. You'll taste so sweet, dripping with sin, like your cock drips at your brother's dripping wet body--" It rasped, apparently capable of ignoring the pain when it could get some good taunting in.

Dean stuffed the bed sheet in the creatures mouth and he swore he could hear the holy water destroy its mouth and the dark eyes were still laughing. It was still trying to talk around the mouthful of cloth, still writhing and shaking the bed in its anger.

Then Sam finished the exorcism. The girl went limp and her eyes were glazed and, _god_ in so much pain. He took the crucifix off her skin and noted with dull horror that he'd burned her so badly the cross was unrecognizable in the mess of blisters. He slipped the necklace around her neck, gently taking out the gag. Tying the leather thong, he stood.

Sam was watching him, totally unreadable.

"Why'd you use the holy water?" he said and Dean could tell he was genuinely confused.

Something loosened deep in his chest and it was sick, considering the mutilated body of the little girl, but he was happier. Sam didn't know. He didn't hear and put the clues together to arrive at something totally unforgivable.

"Come on, let's go." Dean slapped the nurse call button and opened the window. Thank god the room was on the first floor. "Keep the door locked. I want something of a head start."

He climbed out and after a few long moments, Sam followed.

  
\----

Dean figured out long ago that the best defense for something you really didn't want to talk about was a good offense. Also--

"What the fuck was that bit about the Girl Scout cookies? It _recognized you_?" Dean slammed the hotel door door behind them. They had both been silent on entire way home, the cold biting at Dean's cheeks and the radio turned all the way up.

"Dean—"

"No, Sam, don't pacify me. The fuck, man?"

Sam picked up the Cheetos from this morning and took one, popping it into his mouth. He seemed way too absorbed by the motion, as if it had some special and personal significance.

"Sammy?" Dean said.

"Shouldn't we be talking about the fact that was the weirdest exorcism ever?"

" _Sammy._ "

"Okay, alright? _Fuck._ " Sam tossed the Cheetos in the trash this time with a snarl. "I've been getting dreams of Dad in hell for weeks. They started the Sunday after he died and I've gotten them every day since, and you know what? I can't even really figure out why he is in hell, but I know it pretty much fucking sucks."

"Sammy—" Dean tried to cut in. He would do anything to stop Sam from sounding like that.

"No, don't fucking Sammy me. You Sammy-ed me into talking about this, so you are going to sit down and you are going to listen." Dean rolled his eyes when Sam pointed. "Sit. Now."

Dean sat.

"The same demon is in every one. He looks like some normal guy, just a dude, you know? Except he's like fucking Hannibal Lector on crack. He considers humans a delicacy and he's been living in my head, telling me about how they taste with fava beans and a nice chianti or whatever-the-fuck. I've seen him stuff people like ducks to make their liver into _foie gras_ and kill children because they are more tender. His favorite is showing me how he cooks Dad. Sometimes he kills him quickly – because, apparently, adrenaline floods the meat and makes it tough and tasteless – sometimes, though he does it slow, bleeds him out. Uses the blood to make _sausage_."

Dean felt sort of sick. Not because of the images (though, to be honest, _gross_ ), but because of the look on Sam's face. He seemed sort of distant, cool, even as he was raging. It wasn't like when he was a teenager, the way he'd get up into your fucking face and scream at you, unconsciously looming with his giant-sized body, even before he really grew into it. Sam had always been easy to read, easy to predict, easy to exhaust; he'd shout and fight and hell, even hold a grudge, but he never really bothered to repress it. Not with them, at least.

Now, though, Sam was being tugged by something, pressed and pushed so that he could shout and be on the edge of tears, but still seem like he was about to close off completely and shrink into nothingness. His huge little brother looked tiny.

"Every time I'd have the dream Dad sounded like he's been screaming just a little bit longer. I want nothing more than for the dreams to the end, because I'm never sure I can take it longer. I'm pretty much sure that makes me the biggest fucking douchebag and most selfish loser on the planet, but I've never seen Dad sniffle. I'm pretty sure that his voice will give out before the pain stops."

Sam sat down heavily next to Dean; Dean immediately leaned into his brother, pressing their shoulders tightly together, taking comfort from how solid Sam felt and hoping he took comfort in Dean.

"Christ," Sam said after a moment. "I'm totally monologuing."

"You're good at it," Dean said, mildly. "Go with your strengths."

Dean just listened to his brother breathe for a moment, allowing him to compose himself, catch his breath. There was a twist of something nauseating and guilty in his stomach at this easy comfort, the way they just worked so well together, despite it all.

After what felt like a longer silence than it actually was, Dean said:

"Well, we'll just have to get rid of it."

Sam tightened his lips, squeezing them into a line. He nodded sharply, once, with a note of finality that Dean didn't particularly like.

"Just don't do anything stupid."

Standing up, Sam ruffled his hair, causing Dean to scowl. Sam knew how much he hated that. "That's your department, slick."

Sam walked into the bathroom and locked himself in there for a good long time, while Dean stared at the TV with unseeing eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean had a dream that night about a fry cook that looked like Elvis and was making pea soup; he ripped off little pieces of his own body to brown in the bottom of the pot, give it flavor, like Dean used to use left over sandwich meat when he cooked from a can.

When he woke up in the small light of the morning, he figured it was his own twisted subconscious talking to him and not any real demons. Demons? Not subtle. At least, not this one. Rolling out of bed, he realized Sam was already gone on his run. He glanced outside; at least it wasn't still _actively_ snowing. Moron.

Dean tossed the note that said "be back later" in the trash and called Sam to hear it ring. Sam was terrible about the phone and no amount of hollering by their father had been able to change that.

Opening up Sam's computer and breezily cracking the password ("jessica." His brother was maudlin and predictable and strangely tragic, but Dean was trying not to think about it too closely), he decided to do some research. It wasn't really his thing, but Sam was off his game, that demon was fucking creepy, and Dean needed a distraction.

He googled "food demons" and got a list of sites about how to conquer your personal addiction to fast food or candy. "Food myths": reasons why organic wasn't all that cool. "Gourmet demons": nothing really at all. Shutting Sam's computer with a final sounding _snick_ , he decided he really was useless at that, or at the very least, totally out of practice. He turned on the TV.

Dean felt restless, more than usual, like there was no way he could just veg like he usually did. He flipped past seven different Law and Orders, hesitated on ESPN, but kept on going. He shifted positions on the bed; first he was on his side, then sprawled on his back and then he sat Indian style at the foot. He glanced at the clock. He had woken up barely ten minutes ago.

Scoffing in disgust, he decided to take a shower. At least jerking off would pass the time, which seemed to have largely stopped. He stripped, leaving bits of his clothing as a trail to the bathroom and climbed in the shower, prematurely bitching to himself about the water pressure.

It was never hard enough in hotels, not enough to really dig deep under the muscle and pound down against wounds. But it was hard enough for this.

Dean curled his hand around his cock, stroking it to fullness with familiar fingers. He leaned against the side of the shower, his eyes falling closed and his hips canting out, the other hand starting a slow soft rhythm down his own body. The water was hot, but his own hand was even more warming, the catch of his callouses pleasant even with the slick of the water.

He let his mind drift from image to image, flirting with the remembered feel of the girlfriend he had in Topeka for a little, Veronica – she had perfect tits, high and well shaped. Her smiling blonde face shifted into Angelina Jolie's pouting lips and then Brad Pitt and then Rory's boyfriend on Gilmore Girls. Faces fell into his mind, but nothing really stuck, nothing really interested him (except for that which he's not thinking about, won't think about, will never think about) and he focused instead on the shivery little jerks of pleasure, the purely tangible comfort of it.

If the Catholics were right, Dean would have long since gone blind. He loved this, loved the way he could make himself tremble and move. He was a sexual being and it was a sexual act, but it also was strangely soothing. Peaceful, even.

There was someone moving in the room outside and Dean tensed, calculating the best line of defense even as he heard Sam's voice call his name. His eyes, which had snapped open at the minor interruption, squeezed shut again and he stifled a moan.

He could imagine Sam out there, flushed and sweating from the run, red and chapped from the cold. He could almost see what he was wearing, long warm pants and his small University of Kansas sweat shirt. The only thing he owned that was too small, and it followed the lines of his broad chest like cling-wrap.

"I'm in the shower," Dean shouted , but he could barely hear his own words over the beating of his heart and the pounding of the water and the sounds of Sam moving not ten feet away.

This isn't the first time Dean had been caught masturbating by Sam, but it was the first time since this strange new _thing_.

"Kay," Sam called back, absent-mindedly.

Dean felt young, like a teenager, bright and bruised and at the center of the universe, too breathless and scared for a man in his late twenties with larger worries than who he was gonna fuck and who was gonna know. His hand moved, almost involuntary, and he was aware of every breath he took. He bit down hard on his lower lip and stripped his cock roughly, squeezing almost too hard, pulling at himself as if he wanted his orgasm to hurt.

The door to the bathroom opened.

Dean stopped breathing but he couldn't stop his hand from moving. He heard the sound of Sam undoing his zipper and the small movements of taking himself out, the sound of him pissing.

"Jesus, Sam," he gasped out, not sure if it was an exclamation of pleasure or disgust. Sam snorted, like there was nothing wrong, and said:

"Since when are you a princess, Dean?"

"I think I'm rubbing off on you," Dean managed and then bit his lip to stop the helpless snicker. He couldn't help it; the whole situation was so surreal. His hand was still moving and his cock was so hard; he could feel himself draw up under the sensation, about to come. His entire self felt greedy for it and he squeezed hard at the base of his cock, not wanting to actually fucking get off when his brother was in the room.

"No," Sam said. "Just returning to old patterns."

His voice was strange and Dean hoped it was nostalgia warping it instead of the knowledge his brother had weird incest-y feelings manifesting themselves not five feet away.

The stream of pee ended. It was pretty amazing Dean could hear it over the shower, but everything was in a weird sort of focus, all his senses on his brother on the outside of that shower curtain, such that even the quickly building pace of his orgasm was in thrall to the sound of Sam washing his hands.

The door slammed behind him as he walked out and Dean came, gasping loud enough that Sam heard.

"You okay?"

"Tripped," Dean said.

\---

"So, research time?" Dean said, tossing his wet towel at Sam, who was looking entirely too peaceful typing something on his lap top. Dean needed to mess things up, distract himself.

"Computer!" Sam sputtered.

Dean gestured regally. "Carry on with it on the computer, then."

Sam looked peeved as he tossed the towel on the floor, his hands running quickly to check it for any damage and then setting it aside. "Not that. I've been researching this guy for weeks and haven't really been able to find anything; people have all sorts of myths and stories about food, but nothing that really fits this sicko."

Sam spoke totally workmanlike, his face hidden behind a mask of efficiency. Dean thought ruefully of a time when he could read Sam like Sam read his books, back before he went away to college and learned to hide. It took normality for Sam to learn to hide his emotions, though his transparency had survived many years on the run. Normally that would make him angry, but now he was only grateful; he didn't really recognize this person, so this person wasn't dangerous.

"Should I rent a zombie movie or d'you think he eats humans to survive?" Dean asked. He pulled up the rickety wooden chair at the desk, sitting on it backwards across from where Sam was on he bed.

"No," Sam said after a moment. "Definitely not zombie-like. Doesn't crave flesh irrationally, y'know? And even more definitely no to him needing it to survive. He doesn't like things he needs – the things he does are pleasures. People are treated like, well, luxuries."

"Sounds like we're Christmas shopping for some pretty sick friends."

Sam looked away and grabbed his computer, suddenly absorbed by it. With the hand that wasn't tapping at the touch-pad, he was messing with a snag at the comforter, teasing out strings, and Dean was drawn to stare at his huge, idly moving fingers.

"Yeah, well, you try living in his head every night," Sam said when the silence stretched too long. "I know him better than I ever knew any of my friends."

Dean had to be silent. There was nothing he could say and even if there was, he probably didn't have the right. Guilt was a sick taste curling in the back of his throat, choking words of comfort. He was way fucking past brotherly love and it taints even this simple contact until Dean could barely look at him. So he didn't. He stared at the wall, memorizing the pattern of the ugly, ugly wallpaper.

"Well, keep researching," Dean said. "Find a way to fix it and we'll fix it. I'm gonna go talk to Miss Linda's parents, figure out what was up with that."

He also wanted to see if she was okay. He rather doubted it.

"Dean, it isn't gonna help." Sam stood, shut his computer. "He's never hurt anyone besides this and I think there's a nest of vampires in New York; CNN has been talking about Satanists draining people's blood."

"It has been hurting someone --" Dean knew his voice was too fierce, that it was just going to make Sam defensive, but he couldn't seem to calm down "-- you haven't eaten a goddamn meal for like a week."

"I had that soup!"

"Oh shut up, no you didn't. This demon has been hurting you and we're supposed to help people who've been hurting." Dean's cheeks felt too hot and there was a droplet of water from his still wet hair sliding down his back. It tickled oddly, uncomfortable underneath his shirt.

"Nice speech. Have you been practicing?" Sam spat out.

"Yeah, in the mirror. About as wise as your stubborn, bitchy ass," Dean said.

Sam looked exasperated, like Dean was somehow out of line with his anger and being frustrating. He looked like Dad right before doing something monumentally stupid which made Dean even angrier; he would not let Sam end up dead.

"Look, Dean. Can we at least do research in New York? I don't want Anderson Cooper to get hysterical."

"Oh, you're a humanitarian," Dean said, deflating. He didn't want a fight. Fights never worked, not with Dad and not with Sam. "Fine, whatever. I like vampires."

"But!" he said, nearly a shout, when Sam moved back to fucking around on his computer. "You promise me that you continue to research. And I don't care what you say, I'm questioning Linda's parents. We'll leave tomorrow."

"Yes, Dad," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

"And you eat something."

Sam ignored him.

\---

Dean went to interview the girl's father and it was exactly as unhelpful as Sam predicted. He stayed out another half-hour or so, and went to the dinner they ate at last night and ordered too much food.

He ate his fries while they were still a little too hot, burning his mouth, his fingers becoming soaked and shiny with grease and salt. It wasn't really an attractive look for him, but he smiled low and naughty at the waitress, caused her to lean forward just a bit too much whenever she refilled his coffee.

This was a different and prettier waitress than last night, with nice big tits and dark brown hair. It looked good on her, with thick bangs that covered her eyes and made her look mysterious. He smiled at her, but his belly didn't curl and she was actually far less interesting than his shitty food.

She wasn't Sam, didn't make him _want_. Those were dangerous thoughts, though, so Dean just took a huge bite of burger and focused on the newspaper he bought, ostensibly for research. He glanced through the news pages, didn't see anything interesting, so he flipped to the comics. Some parts of the country called them the funny pages, and that always appealed to him. Funny pages. It had a nice simplicity to it.

His fingers left transparent spots on the paper and the colors on the page swirled together, meaning nothing. He didn't have any need to laugh, but he tried to smile so that the waitress didn't think he was crazy, staring at Dilbert with a thousand yard stare.

His phone rang, vibrating in his pocket and sending him three feet in the air. He was tense.

"I want to leave," Sam whined, close and intimate against his ear. Dean took in a sharp breath.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Dean set aside the newspaper and summoned the waitress, slipping a credit card out of his pocket. She looked affronted and he resisted rolling his eyes, pointing to the phone. "Not you, him."

"Yeah, well, you told me we could go to New York."

The waitress took the credit card.

"I'm sorry, baby, don't be that way. You know I meant it when I said it." Dean watched the process of ringing him up carefully from beneath his lowered eyelashes, as he always did; the thing about fake credit cards is that you had to be ready to motor if need be.

"I hate you so much. Just so you know," Sam said.

"I know." The waitress returned with his credit card and he hauled himself to his feet after signing, leaving a few dollars cash on the table for tip. He wanted her to get paid and credit card fraud wasn't the best way to insure that.

"I'm getting in the car; pack up, I'll meet you outside." He hung up and climbed in his Impala.

Dean blasted the heat and touched the steering wheel gingerly, the cold seeping into the tiny bones of his fingers. He hated being cold; hated everything about it. He hated the way his skin prickled when he warmed up, the way his nose started running and his eyes felt scalded.

It was this time of year he started searching particularly hard for ghosts in Houston or New Orleans, eager for the closest thing America'd got to the tropics. It was this time of a year that made him yearn for the Hawaii he had seen in movies, all palm trees and white sand. Maybe, one day, the day he won the lottery (and he still bought tickets, just in case. With the same set of numbers: three birthdays), he would take a cruise there. A short break from hunting, with sun, sand, and pina coladas.

Pulling up in front of their room, he honked long and loud. Sam stuck his head of the door, hair in chaos and shouted that he was coming, before ducking back inside again. After a couple more moments, he emerged again, slinging the the packs over his shoulders. Climbing in, he dumped them in the back.

"Careful," Dean said. "I gotta rifle in there."

"Yes, because I don't know how to treat a weapon." Sam rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat before closing his eyes and sighing just a little. Dean swallowed hard.

"Ooh, college-boy. I'm not questioning your edu-ma-cation," Dean said. "I'm just saying I love my gun and my car more than I love you; hurt either, and it'll be your doom."

Sam snorted, flipping Dean off and turning over a bit to his side, pressing his face in between the car and the window.

"Wake me up when we leave Massachusetts."

Dean nodded, even though Sam couldn't see, and kept on driving.

\---

Dean was nodding his head along with the tape, not even listening to the music just somehow knowing the beat like his spinal cord knew how to tell his heart to pump blood (which, as analogies went, wasn't the best one, as Dean didn't have the slightest fucking clue how any of that worked). The driving was good, which meant clear and easy and thankfully free of minivans.

Most cars were okay. He liked the sports cars, zipping along and challenging him to races with their very showiness, and there was something very endearing about the old rust-buckets. He made a habit of stopping to help anyone by the side of the road who looked like they needed it; Dean figured he could handle himself if they turned out to be a psycho killer, considering that was pretty much his job. Hell, he loved truckers. Used their stops, learned how to talk about their rigs, chatted with them about shitty radio and Pennsylvania's terrible highways system and what a pain in the fucking ass it was to drive through cities like LA or Houston. Dean figured in a previous life, he must have been a trucker. He hoped he managed to keep his svelte figure even sitting on his ass all day.

Anyway, that wasn't the point. The point was Dean hated minivans and any trip that was free of them was a good one. It wasn't even totally irrational (although, to be fair: mostly irrational), because minivans were associated with beleaguered moms, who typically had a carload of screaming children distracting them from the road.

Dean was peaceful, like driving was fucking meditation or something. He was going for hours by the time he felt like he needed to stop, his stomach growling and Sam still snoring on the passenger seat. He managed to stop and get some fast food without Sam even moving.

When he got back and Sam hadn't moved, he held his hand in front of his nose for a second or two, just to make sure he was breathing. It was mostly a personal joke, a way of snickering at his brother's condition, but still. It was creepy to see a person that still.

The moment Dean opened the bag of fast food and the smell of grease and salt filled the air, potatoes like perfume, Sam moaned. It was an awful sound and Dean jumped, the car jerking a little to the left before he managed to compose himself and drive straight. Sam moaned again, throwing his head back hard against the seat, once, twice, a third time.

And by hard, Dean meant _hard_ , the entire passenger seat quaking with the impact, groaning and complaining. It was strange -- unusual nightmare behavior, just the head moving like that and with so much purpose. Dean pulled over, in front of a little car that absolutely laid into the horn, in order to wake Sam up.

He shook his shoulder, to no avail.

"Sammy?" Dean said, unbuckling his seat belt to lean over and slap his face lightly. "Wake up, dude."

When Dean got closer, Sam jerked away, the side of his skull hitting the window with an awful crack. His teeth were bared and clenched together, so tightly that Dean could see the muscles in his jaw bulging. When Dean tried to move closer again, Sam whimpered and pressed himself further away, his entire body visibly cringing.

It twisted something awful deep, but Dean got the picture. He sat back, but tried again. "Sam?"

No response. Sam wasn't thrashing as much anymore, now that Dean was farther away, but he was still moving in spastic little jerks. It was as if what had sent his head into the back of the seat had slipped lower on his body, into his fingers and his knees.

Dean tried to help; he tossed the fast food out the window, figuring it had something to do with this fit, but it didn't seem to help. Sam's eyelids were fluttering and he was clearly under the thrall of something, even if it wasn't supernatural at all.

It was painful to watch and Dean was forced to squeeze the steering wheel until it hurt, desperate not to interfere. Sam always had nightmares, but this was the first one in a while that has happened when Dean was both awake and coherent enough to fully experience. Even besides that, Dean was convinced it was particularly bad.

After awhile, Dean gave up waiting it out. Sam had started to mutter something; Dean couldn't tell what exactly it was, but it wasn't changing. He was repeating something under his breath like a ;prayer, in time to the fevered movements of his body. Dean wasn't going to be able to tolerate it any longer; it was purely selfish. At this point, Dean didn't even care.

He leaned over (doing his best to ignore the helpless way Sam tried to shift away) and shook him roughly, hard enough that Sam's entire body reacted to the whiplash. He was probably squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. That didn't seem to help, but Dean tried again, even harder this time.

"Sammy, I swear to God," Dean roared, trying to make as much noise as possible, drive him out of this sleep. "If you don't wake--"

Sam's eyes snapped open, darting wildly before focusing on Dean. He looked more than a little fuzzy.

"What's going on?" he said. Dean released him and Sam slowly reached up to rub his shoulder, still looking confused.

"Nothing," Dean said, starting the car. "Go back to sleep."

After five or ten minutes, Sam did.

\---

It was still cold when they stopped, about halfway to New York. When Dean emerged from the car, his toasted and chapped skin from the heater protested mightily. He rubbed his face, feeling the rasp unrelated to his stubble, and winced. He would use the lotion in the hotel if he didn't just _know_ that would mean infinite mockery.

Sam was leaning heavily against the side of the car, fast asleep. His mouth was open (which probably dried his mouth totally out, considering the heat and the length of time he'd been sleeping) and he was snoring lightly. He didn't seem relaxed, though; his face was tight and twisted, and he was still shifting restlessly. He had nearly woken at every turn, it seemed like.

Dean looked at him for a moment, through the closed window, and felt sort of sticky inside, like a candy bar which melted in his pocket and now got on everything, leaving dark stains and the smell of chocolate.

But that was a bit girly and emotional, so he opened the door quick enough that Sam tumbled on the ground, landing in a pile of snow on the curb. Sam spluttered, spitting out a spray of dirty brown snow, scrambling to his feet and looking vaguely panicked.

"Wha?" he said, after he finally stood and settled into a prepared stance, his hair crazy and his clothing wet.

Dean nearly bust a gut laughing, leaning against the car and roaring. It felt good.

Sam continued to look a little wild-eyed for a moment before cuffing Dean roughly about the head. "I think I've said this before, but I hate you so much."

"Yeah," Dean said, wheezing. "I hate you, too."

He blew Sam a kiss. Sam outright _growled_ and then turned on his heel to enter the hotel. Dean followed, still laughing.

The girl behind the desk was reading a magazine and smacking on a piece of gum. When she heard the bell signifying their entrance, she looked up smiled mechanically. After a moment of surveying them, her expression became decidedly warmer. She was very pretty, with the right amount of makeup and large, brown eyes. Dean let his smile become a bit hot, too – it was all but expected.

Except for Sam, of course. He shot him a side glance – yep. Sam just looked sullen.

"Hello, gentleman," she said. "Are you checking in?"

"We don't have a room, but we'd like to book one," he said. "I'm Ian Curtis and this is my brother Jamie Lee."

Sam's unpleasant expression deepened. She just laughed.

He smiled at her. "Our parents had a sense of humor."

"Apparently," she said. "Also, you're in luck. We have a double that you can go right into. It's fifty a night.. Should I book it for you?"

"Yep," Dean said. "That'd be perfect."

Sam rolled his eyes, causing Dean to feel bizarrely pleased. It was great to watch him behave so normally. He liked when Sam reverted to irritated (and irritating) teenager. It was familiar and well-loved ground. Hoping to provoke an even more amusing reaction, Dean leaned slowly in, even closer to the grinning clerk.

She reached up to push her hair back from her face, a coy little smile.

From the corner of his eyes, Dean could see Sam's scowl deepen. Awesome.

"Right," Sam said, businesslike, reaching around Dean to grab the keys and the credit card that the girl set out the second she placed them down. "Time to go, Dean. Nice to meet you ma'am, it's been a real pleasure."

Dean let himself be dragged away, grinning.

\---

Sam tossed the dufflebag on the bed with a theatrical sigh and let himself topple next to it. Dean resisted the urge to yell timber. Sam already looked pissed.

"What's with you?" Dean asked. "Can I get you any food ?"

He wasn't hungry, but he'd fake it to get Sam to eat. Sam shook his head wordlessly, though, and just turned his head to look away. Dean studied his hair – too long and definitely looking a bit greasy.

"Or a haircut?"

Sam turned over to give him an eye. "You don't look like your hair could get much shorter."

"Well, I was thinking about going-- no, for _you_ , moron," he said, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking up and down.

"Can you get it take out?" Sam said after a long moment.

"I'm not cutting your hair. Even if it is perfect, you'll never let me forget it."

"No-- I meant food. Can you get me some take-out?"

Dean thought about trying to argue, but he studied Sam for a long moment. He looked like he was about to sink into the ugly looking comforter; he was totally exhaustedly sprawled out, mindlessly ignoring the threat of dried semen and other unmentionables. Normally Sam was as fastidious as someone who lived in motels could be, but today he was down right lackadaisical with his body.

"Okay. Okay, sure."

Dean left. And then ran back, grabbed his wallet, and then left again. It was funny – he was always forgetting that, but he never forgot his pistol.

\---  
Dean got back.

Sam was gone. This wasn't all that unusual, so he fished out his cellphone and gave him a call.

The ringer of Sam's blackberry sounded from the end-table, in tandem with the _brrring_ Dean heard in in his ear. He began to feel slightly unneasy, slightly unnatural, but he dismissed the emotions.

He was just being clingy, again. Sam would be back. Sam always came back – he was probably on one of those brooding walks he had liked to take, back right after Jessica had left. It was rationalization, bad rationalization – usually Sam left some sort of a note. Also, Dean was freaked out.

The burger and fries he had brought back from a local diner landed with a thud, spraying their contents all over the floor. Dean didn't care – he was too busy checking to see if the protections were still there. Runes were carved on the top of the table that had not been there before, but the lines of salt were undisturbed. Whatever had been there in the past was gone – maybe nothing had been there at all.

Maybe Sam had tried a spell, or something. He didn't recognize the runes, but they didn't seem malevolent. How would Dean know, though? He wasn't psychic boy, he wasn't the one with a thousand different special powers and a thousand different evil things searching after him. That was Sam. Sam, who was gone.

"Oh god," Dean said out loud.

He sat on the bed, heavily. There was a long moment where he was just panicking, his vision narrowing to a small and inconclusive circle in front of him, blackness covering everywhere else. His shoulders heaved and his head throbbed and for a moment it felt like he might crack open, spreading his gore everywhere. It wasn't even this latest disappearance that was most painful to him – it was everything. It was the cops on their tail and that freaky fucking food demon and jerking off to his brother and, god. Dean was almost grateful that Sam wasn't here, as if his brother left on purpose in order to give him enough time to just shake.

Dean sat there until he had exhausted himself (though he had never actually cried), his fingers painfully clenched around a piece of comforter, stress rips at the seam, and then he stood. Went to take a shower, chilled a little.

Called Sam and left a message full of vitriol on his phone. Reminded him it was a damned good idea to leave a note if you wanted to pull a disappearing act. He knew that Sam didn't have his phone with him, but, hell – it was a way to let off a little bit of steam. And the fucker would get it when he got back.

And then he went to sleep.

When he woke up, Sam was still not there.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam had been missing for a week. Dean had tried everything – searched the town, searched the internet, searched the address book of Sam's Blackberry. The password was "jessica," same as the laptop, and Dean had just about given up right there.

He called at least thirty of Sam's friends and every single time there was something lurking underneath the tone, something wary – it made him wonder what Sam had been telling his buddies about Dean. Probably implied abuse from his father, probably looked away with pain in his eyes enough times that the other guys stopped asking. Just like he used to in high school, just like the way that'd get Dean so angry he wished they could abuse him a little.

But that was passed; that was the past and still nobody knew anything about Sam's whereabouts. It was only after he called all of Sam's school friends did he resort to calling Ellen, and he winced as he did it.

"Ellen?" he said. "Have you heard from Sam?"

"No, honey, what happened?" Her voice sunk into worry and Dean just about crushed the plastic shell of the phone in his hand. He hated that tone of voice, from anybody. Hated when his own voice echoed it.

"Disappeared on me. Left all his shi-stuff." He was being curt, but he didn't care. He picked at the remains of a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, the grease seeping through the paper and onto the comforter, though you couldn't really tell the stain from the splotchy design.

"Do you think he was arrested, or something?"'

He stiffened. "No. They wanted me more than they wanted him." Sam was Bonnie. "You hear about that?"

"Yeah. I think everyone did – people are talking. Consensus is that the government getting involved like that is pretty damned scary."

There's something in her voice that makes him think that isn't the whole truth. He doesn't really care. Rumors about the Winchester boys and their foolhardy antics weren't exactly his highest priority at the moment, and he's barely listening to her now. She doesn't know where Sam is, so she doesn't really matter.

"Dean? _Dean_?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm listening." He drags his attention back to the cell phone, resting his head in his hands.

"Where are you?"

"A small town about an hour from New York City." He didn't want to be specific. If something was after them – oh god, him-- he'd like for it to be as difficult as possible.

"I'll spread the word."

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his own temple. "Don't spread it too far."

He hung up on her and didn't feel bad about it, it wasn't important.

As was his custom, he dialed Sam's number (speed dial one) and left him a message. He had turned the ringer off on the Blackberry a long time ago, to keep the fiction that Dean didn't have it, that wherever  
Sam was, he at least was choosing to ignore Dean instead of being forced to.

"Sam, you bastard. Come home," he said. "I --"

And then he hung up and threw his phone against the wall hard enough for it to shatter.

"Damnit," he snarled, and then threw the leftover burger.

It squelched when it hit the wall, and slid slowly down, leaving a trail of ketchup and grease. No one knew where he was and no one knew if he was coming back or when he was coming back. No one, that is, except for Dean – Dean knew that Sam was coming back. Knew it with a scary certainty that he tried not to think about it too hard, because he was hoping that it was from some sort of latent psychic spidey-sense and not from latent batshit insanity.

Fuck it.

Just – Fuck it.

He reached over and got the Blackberry (his own phone having bit the proverbial dust) scrolled down the address book (it had taken him a very long time to figure this out) and called Missouri.

"Dean, baby? Have you found him?"

"No. I was wondering if you could mojo me up an answer?"

There was a long silence. Missouri was the first person that Dean had called after figuring out that Sam was missing for real and searching the town, both for no sign of him. She hadn't recognized the runes (neither had anyone else, but she had been the first not to recognize them) and she had given him no ideas on how to find it.

Dean had been disappointed. There had been long stretches of silence where he had hoped that she would offer her paranormal experience, wave her magic voudoun/voodoo/vodou/however-you-spell-it wand and make everything better. At the very least, go into a trance or something and find his psychic energy. Dean didn't really know how that worked, but he figured it would be a good solution.  
She hadn't offered – and the idea made him decidedly uncomfortable anyway-- and he had dropped the subject.

Now he was unwilling to leave anything out.

"Missouri?"

"Yeah, I heard you fine, Dean. I'm just not sure if you want to do this."

"How hard could it be?" he said, running his hands through his hair roughly. They were probably still gross from the old burger, but he didn’t even care, he just need something to grip, to pull. A little pain to ground him. "You see psychic shit all the time."

"Language!"

"Sorry." Dean was not sorry. "So, can you?"

"I tried. I did – I tried when you first called me, just after I got off the phone."

He felt his heart sink. He knew it was fucking cliché and he did not even care – it was fucking true. Something sank like a stone in his chest and left him feeling strange and twisted up.

"Didn't find anything?" Dean asked, trying not to sound like he had emotions. He was normally so good at that facade, but never with Sam. Sam had a way of punching through any masks he was confronted with, even when he didn't notice it. Thinking back on it, Dean didn't think Sam ever realized how strange it was for John Winchester to yell like he used to. With Dean, all he did was the icy silence routine, no matter how bad the offense. Dean could crash the fucking car, fuck a girl in his father's bed, rob a bank and use the money to buy smack and all he'd get was a baleful glance. The thing was, that was all he'd need.

Anyway, anyway, Missouri was talking and now he'd missed it. "Sorry, I missed that."

"Your head is gone, isn't it?" Missouri said. She didn't sound teasing; instead, she was deadly serious, like Dean's woolgathering was cause for major concern. It made him uncomfortable.

"I'm fine. Tired, but fine." He was lying. He never felt less than fine in his life, even if he was sleeping more and more each day and eating like a fucking pig. Even when he had that strange certainty that  
Sam would come back, that it was only time. It was like Sam's absence took away a part of himself.

"Baby, if you drive yourself to the bone you'll do him no good." She sounded like she knew what he was talking about.

"Why, do you have something I can actually do?" He sounded frustrated. You know what? He was frustrated. He was calling people and searching places and doing everything possible to let people know he was looking for this giant dude, without calling the cops. He can't call the cops, they are on the fucking run from the cops.

"Yes, actually." Dean sat up. "I do. I want you to take some photographs of those runes you were talking about, get a good nights sleep, and then drive over here. How long do you think it'll take you?"

He did some mental calculations. If there was one thing their life style made you good at it, it was directions and everything involved in them. "15 hours, if I'm lucky."

"If I see you here any sooner than Tuesday--" he had to do some more calculations to figure out what day of the week it was. It was Sunday afternoon. "-- then I am going to tan your hide."

"Yes ma'am," he said. "What are you going to have me do?"

"You'll find out when you are get here. On Tuesday, sir. Listen to your elders."

"Yes ma'am," he said, feeling a lot more awake than he had only moments ago. "I'll see you Tuesday."

He hung up the phone, grinned into pure air for a moment, and then got up to go buy a cheap disposable camera. Three hours later (one to wait for the photos, fifteen minutes to pack, and the rest of the time for one last search), he left, whistling Dixie and listening to Led Zeppelin II.

Dean never got the fascination with fucking Lord of the Rings, but it was a good album.

\---

Missouri was sitting on her porch when he got there mid-Monday and she did not look happy with him.

"If you cannot follow basic directions," she said, standing as he got out of his car. "Then I don't know why I should help you."

She didn't seem serious, but he resisted the urge to roll his eyes anyway. "I'm sorry. You seemed to know I wouldn't listen to you or why would you be waiting on me?"

"I'm a psychic, boy. Just because I know something doesn't mean I approve. Regardless, you are here now and you are going to take a nap. When you wake up, I am going to feed you dinner and then tell you what is going to happen."

Dean touched his shoulder in a parody of a man tipping his hat and Missouri laughed at him, a great raucous snort that he couldn't get enough of. She laughed big. He liked that.

"Now get inside," she said, sitting back down on her rocking chair and taking a sip of her tea. It was probably sweetened enough to rot a hole through a tooth as you were looking at it – sometimes Missouri seemed a little bit too southern to be real, like someone out of movie. Dean's found that his traveling had made him suspicious of stereotypes. No part of the country is exactly consistent from person to person.

And look, Missouri was talking again and he was zoning out. By the time he picked up on his mistake, she was already frowning at him.

"You feeling sapped, Dean?"

"Just tired," he said. She rolled her eyes. Reminded him of Sam, which made him want to cry, which, yeah. Was probably a sign he was too fucking exhausted.

"The room I'm lending you is up the stairs to the left. It has lemons on the coverlet, try not to get it too muddy with those boots."

"Thank you ma'am," he said, because John Winchester raised him right.

When he spoke to her again, she seemed a little softer. "Get."

He made his way in the house. It smelled nice, mostly of potpourri and old lady perfume, rich and secret. There was something spicy in it, too, like chili peppers – which totally didn't surprise him. Missouri's food tended toward the absurdly hot and he had no idea where she got that from; it wasn't like Kansas was traditionally home to the fire and brimstone style of cooking.

The stairs creaked when he walked on him, but the door to his room was easy enough to find. There were indeed lemons and they made the whole room a cheery yellow. It looked soft, though a bit small (it'd way too small for Sam), and he collapsed on it, throwing his duffle bag on the ground. Told himself he'd get up in a moment to change.

Dean fell asleep thinking of Missouri's food and the way she added a shitload of cayenne pepper to her fried chicken batter.

\---

He woke up to the smell of coffee.

Groaning, he pulled himself into a seated position and started to call out for Sam before he realized he wouldn't answer. He's done that every day since Sam left him. That's the way that Dean liked to phrase it – Sam left him. It made it seem like a reasoned decision. Well, if not reasoned, at least it made it seem like a decision. It was familiar – Sam left him. Just like last time, Sam left him. God forbid Dean concede the possibility that he was taken.

He blinked a little bit and looked around – the room looked a bit too bright for a Kansas evening. Oh, and shit. He got mud on the bed.

"Come on down then, honey," Missouri called, just as he was calculating how to fix the bed. "I don't mind the mess. Get some breakfast."

God, psychics. Can't live with him.

Dean pulled off his boots at least and padded his way downstairs. Missouri pushed him into a seat at the kitchen table and handed him a cup of coffee, before going back to her bacon. It was a nice kitchen – far neater than the rest of the house. Well loved.

"I slept 'till Tuesday morning."

"You slept until Tuesday morning," she agreed, placing a heaping plate of food in front of him. There were cheese grits, white and silky on the side of his plate, leaking into the fried ham and blending easily with its little puddle of grease. A biscuit was shedding crumbs as it teetered on the edge, just about to fall onto the table itself, totally pushed out by all that food. There were three slices of bacon right next to the fried ham. Two of them were fried golden and perfect, but the third was a little burnt.

"Sorry about that," she said. As if she knew what he was thinking, which of course she did. "The pan was on the burner a little sideways, one got singed. Figured you wouldn't mind."

"Don't," he said. He was still in awe. The fried ham was covered in red-eye gravy, which he hadn't had in ages and was already looking forward too. Now he was just looking, savoring, -- god. Two fried eggs with pico de gallo on top and the red/orange of Tabasco already adorning it. Missouri didn't believe in allowing guests to spice their own food. There was a helping of blueberry cobbler shining on the side of the place, guarded from the grits and the grease by pieces of sliced tomatoes, fresh and helping to keep the blueberries tasting like blueberries, instead of pork.

"You realize that breakfast is for eating, not for looking, right?" She sounded amused, but pleased at his reaction. "Specially breakfast that'll get vile if it gets cold."

"I don't believe that this could ever be vile," he said, starting to dig in happily. "This is fantastic."

It tasted as good as it looked, too – especially those grits. They were delicious, not at all sandy, with the fatty taste of the cheese and the pierced egg yoke rounding them out. And sure, he could taste the Tabasco – smokier than he was used to, maybe that new type.

"God," he moaned. "You so did not have to do this."

"I like doing 'this', as you put it." Missouri was just sipping a cup of coffee and watching him eat. Normally this would make him feel awkward, but this was good and he was bizarrely ravenous. "I like cooking. It's like potion-making."

That gave him slight pause and he gave her a skeptical look around a bite of country ham.

She made a face at him. A dignified face, but still – totally a face. "There are no rat's eyes or nothing. Totally different ingredients, same concept."

"Right, okay," Dean said after a moment, halfway done his huge plate and spreading butter on a biscuit. "Business. Where's my brother?"

"Hell," Missouri said, and took another sip of coffee.

Dean felt nauseated, suddenly, but he was still hungry. He kept on eating, even though the food he was putting in his mouth seemed to turn to ashes in his mouth and slide roughly down his throat. Every bite tasted foul and bitter, but he still ate. He even finished an unctuous piece of bacon, almost unbearable.

"What do you mean?" he said, washing his bite down with coffee and then picking up the last rasher of bacon, almost without the ability to stop himself.

"Exactly what I said. Your fool brother has found himself in hell and he's been pulling on you to get out-- that's why you've been so hungry, that's why you've been so tired. He's just yanking and you can't do shit to pull him out – he's lucky you love him so much that he can even find you." She stood up from the table and handed him another bowl of grits, stirring in a pat of butter. "Here, eat this once you are done."

"But I'm not hungry."

"Dean, baby, you are. You can't help it. And you've got to eat, because you are keeping him alive too."

"That doesn't even make sense!" Dean said, furiously, taking a furious bite of biscuit. It was sort of tempered by the crumbs that ran down his chin and all over his shirt, probably taking up permanent residence. But it was furious.

"Magic makes its own sort of sense," she said, serenely. She poured herself another cup of coffee with a little bit of milk in and then topped off Dean's black cup. "It's not for me to question it. But I can help you pull him out. But we got to do it soon, or you'll eat until you pop."

"Oh my god!" Dean groaned, with horror. "Like that fat dude in the beginning of Seven. That's like the worst way to die ever."

Missouri looked confused.

Dean said, "Nevermind. Anyway, so why is it only now that I can't stop eating?"

"Because before you were ignoring it and before you were too tired to notice. Also, before there wasn't someone fattening you up for stress."

"Hopefully you don't plan to eat me," he said. "Fatten me up like an old witch."

"I am an old witch, darling," she said, standing up and walking over to the counter, getting him another bowl of grits. Dean hadn't even realized he was finishing his first refill. "But I've got better things to eat than you."

He seriously felt like he was going to be sick. "Can I stop eating now?"

"Well," Missouri said. She had started to do the dishes. "You probably can't-- but you finish that, I'll stop you and I'll walk you through the ritual."

"Wait, first-- How the hell did my brother get to hell?"

She looked for a moment like she was going to call him on his language, but Dean didn't care. This was a situation that deserved language, if any did. "It had to have been his choice. He had to have tried to get there or they couldn't have taken him."

"Fuck," Dean said, into his grits. It was explosive and harsh and Missouri didn't say anything at all. "Probably to get dad, he was going a little insane. Fuck."

They both were quiet for a moment.

"Okay," Dean said, taking another bite and a deep breath. "What do I need to do?"

"Those runes you took photos over were part of a transportation spell that I don't have a clue how Sam learned – when he gets back, I'm going to tan his hide."

"You're going to have to stand in line," Dean muttered, but he was mostly lying.

"Hush. Anyway, I'm going to have to send you to hell and you're going to have to pull the both of y'all away from whatever baddie has got Sam in its clutches."

"What?" Dean said. "You're going to have to _send me to hell_? Are you joking?"

"Boy, don't fuss at me," she snapped. She turned around to look at him, her face looking way too tired and angry to be at all comforting. The hot water she had been using to scald the pots clean was still going behind her, giving off pillows of steam and spray that he could almost feel from the kitchen table. Her hair was damp and her eyes were dark and she was like some kind of vengeful goddess. "I'm having enough trouble with myself letting you go down there and sending you there. You have no idea how dark it is to look – that's why I didn't call you back promptly, when I figured out the information that you needed. I was scared. Well, for two days, I wasn't able to call, because I was sleeping."

She took a deep breath and turned back to her washing, but she kept on talking. Softer, now. Less angry. Decidedly less scary. "I'm only letting you go now because with you missing your bother, I figure it is only time you do something moronic. I want to be there to pull your fat out of the fire."

"Unlike you pulled the bacon. Which looks burnt," he said, poking at the last little strips of black rasher and ignoring the rest of his hunger, which had been totally untouched. That was just weird – Dean always ate a lot, but no person alive ate like that.

"Shush. What I'm trying to say, is that I'm fairly sure you won't die, I'm not sure you'll come back you, and I know I can't do a damn thing to stop you. Besides, as I said – you'd probably only kill yourself anyway."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Dean said, the spoon scrapping the bottom of the bowl. He felt oddly defensive, felt like he had to close himself off and prevent her from saying anything more.

"I know you, Dean. Your family means everything you and they don't realize how much – it's probably because of you that Sam's still holding on so tight. He can't help it, you're pulling on him so hard."

Dean fucking hated psychics. He watched the bowl slide away from him and stared at the table, his finger following the wood grain. He felt like one of those mental patients, a little bit, the ones with OCD – had to compulsively trace to ground himself, or something.

"Hey now," Missouri said and he felt her long fingers underneath his chin, tilting his head up to look her in the eye. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"Fucking psychics," he said out loud this time.

She slapped him gently on his cheek. "You have an awful mouth."

Straightening, she returned to her dishes. He watched the empty plates leave and his stomach was churning, filled both to straining and gnawing-empty. When she got to the sink again, bent down with the white curtains fluttering above her head.

"By the way, Dean?" she said. He looked down, abruptly, unwilling to meet here eyes again – it wasn't a big deal, though. She didn't look up. "The thing about psychics is that most of us don't really have powers-- I do, but I don't use them as often as you think. I just watch people. I just know people."

There was a long pause with the clang of dishes and the running water.

"And the thing is, while you're holding on tight to Sam, I'm fairly sure he's clutching at you. Sam's in the habit of clutching at you."

\---

"Dude," Dean said, looking up. "I'm not a demon."

There was an intricate design that he recognized pretty well. That damned devil's trap always seemed to pop up.

"You are going to hell," Missouri said, handing him a thick length of rope. "God knows what you'll bring back with you."

"Sammy," Dean said. "What do you want to do with these?"

"Hold them for a second." She was bustling around, clearing a space in her living room for him to have a comfortable five feet radius even around the edges of the devil's trap. She even moved the pale pink carpet away from his chair, revealing the stained and ancient hard wood floor. There were scratches from a bunch of days and activities and lives lived in this house and he was bizarrely grateful for them. Made him feel less guilty about potentially destroying it further.

Missouri's hand fell heavy on Dean's shoulder and he had to resist shaking it off like a horse with a fly. "Stop fretting."

"I'm not fretting," he said, then realized he was lying. Everything in the room seemed too real and important; it was like he was incapable of focusing or even determining the relevance of different movements. Missouri's warm hand was the same as the familiar rub of his boots or the way his collar dug a bit. She took back the rope and started to tie him up.

She made good quality knots, pulling the ropes painfully tight around his wrists and ankles. He submitted to it easily, pulling his mind away from weird, terrifying, and strangely vivid bondage places.

She stood, groaning, putting her hand on her lower back. "Whew, boy. I'm too old and tired for you. Pull."

He pulled, straining with his whole person to get free. The knots held.

There was the ghost of a smirk on her face, but by the time Dean was going to call her on it, she was perfectly serious and getting out a mortar and pestle. She stuffed a red bunch of what looked like some kind of root, looking a little like a frozen cobweb. She crushed it rhythmically, leaning her entire weight into each press-twist.

"If you hadn't have tied me up I would have totally done that for you," he said, feeling antsy and bored already.

"You can't touch them until I do the spell. Can't become accustomed to your energies."

Dean resisted the urge to pull a childish face. He never really bought into the whole magical mumbo-jumbo, even when he believed it whole-heartedly. It was real, to him, like any other element of his life, but the whole process seemed old-fashioned and faintly embarrassing.

Maybe Sam was right when he said Dean was only interested in things he could shoot, eat or fuck.

At the time, back before the thing with the incest developed, Dean had smiled and asked him how that theory could be true. Dean paid a lot of attention to Sam, after all.

Sam had smiled back and told him that if Dean wanted, he could shoot him.

God. They couldn't have that conversation now, not even if Dean could find Sam. The years had built complications around them both and every field conversation seemed like a demilitarized zone, guarded by barbed water and riddled with land mines.

"Dean?" Missouri's voice sounded very close and Dean snapped his eyes open to see her crouched in front of him, peering into his face. "You falling asleep?"

Now that she mentioned it, he did feel exhausted; it was as if his ass had already congealed into the chair and the immense amount of food he had consumed was pressing him down. He had just opened his eyes and now he wanted to shut them again; his limbs trembled from weariness.

"I'm fine – yeah, I'm fine."

"Good," she said. She sounded concerned, but stood again and moved over to her growing collection of herbs. "I thought you might want to know what you should expect."

"That would be nice."

She looked over her shoulder at him and said, "Well, shame, that, because I have no idea. Well, I have some idea –here, open and chew." She had moved toward him and was holding a packet of herbs near his mouth. He opened up and she popped it in.

It felt like a packet of salad and dirt, and tasted much the same only fouler, but he obediently chewed. And kept chewing.

"And swallow. You aren't a robot, you know, initiative."

"I'm not the expert here," he said. "And you said you had an idea?"

"What I'm doing is releasing your hold on this plane. Because of the way Sam's clutching at you--" at Sam's name, something throbbed deep in Dean's belly. He wasn't sure if it was the unholy hunger or something slightly more emotional. "-- you'll probably be yanked toward where he is. I don't know precisely where that is or what that implies, but the thing you just swallowed should protect you from most of it. What it can't do, take this."

She handed him a knobbly stick, barely carved at all, but the topknot was smooth and dark from frequent handling. It was awkward to hold with his hands tied to the chair, but he managed it, resting it against the armrest.

"Adler wood, soaked in a tisune of white adler. It'll project into wherever you're going with you."

"How do I use it?"

She shook her head. "Baby, I can't tell you. You gotta learn."

"Learn from who?" he said. He didn't feel at all afraid, which was insane; Dean never had before confused fearlessness with bravery. While he may not admit to it, he got shaky with the best of them before a big hunt or a big fight; fear was useful. Fear was sane.

Right now, though, he apparently was a little crazy because he was about ready to waltz into hell and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, he was so cool. He was so cool people could call him refrigerator. But when he thought of Sam (distinct from going to hell; going to hell was just a mechanism, a device, a process), his mouth went dry and his hands went wet, the moisture getting all confused as his head swirled.

He cleared his head as adept as any Zen master, and said. "Whatever, don't answer that. How do I get back?"

"You break this," she said, holding up a little glass ball. It looked as if it would crush by accident, with slender walls and sloshing liquid inside. He must have looked dubious, because she continued. "Trust me, it ain't gonna break unless you want it too. You break this, then hold onto your brother tight. Hopefully it'll both bring you right here."

She leaned over and slipped it in his pocket. It was hard against his hipbone, but he could ignore it.

"Am I ready to go? All suited up?"

"One last thing," she said, and knelt down to brush his forehead with a dry kiss. "Now you're ready. Close your eyes."

He felt the splash of liquid on his face and heard the sound of Latin chanting. He couldn't hear what she was saying, though, because he was already unconscious.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean opened his eyes.

He was in a kitchen. It was a nice kitchen, clean and perfect, with sleek black counters made of stone and a burner that shone dully in the light, its burnished metal distorting any hope of a clear reflection. It was very modern and very sterile – almost flat, like it had been lifted straight out of Better Home and Garden or some other such show. It was What Your Kitchen Could Be in Eight Easy Steps. He half expected to see little blurbs of information next to the oven, letting him know it was Kenmore and that the pans you see gleaming there were donated by the nice people at Kitchen Aid.

It wasn't what he quite expected out of hell.

He was standing up, the knobbly stick that Missouri had given him hanging loose in his hand. There were dots of burning along his face and he reached up to touch one of them. It stung and when he pulled his hand back, there was still wetness glittering there. It must have been from whatever Missouri had tossed on him before he left.

Out of curiosity, he dropped it on the counter. It hissed, burning a small white hole in the smooth material.

"Now, that wasn't very polite. Do you normally go splashing acid on your host’s things?"

The voice came from behind him – he recognized it in some instinctive way; it was the same demon that had possessed the girl. The sound of it was different, but still feminine. Sweet, even.

He whirled around, holding the stick warily out in front of him. He didn't know what the fuck he was going to do with it, but he wasn't going to have nothing.

The woman -- _demon_ \-- glanced at it and rolled her eyes. "Cute."

She was tiny enough to fit in his back pocket, couldn't have been more than 110, 120 pounds. But she was tall, probably about his height – it should have looked unnatural, but instead it made the whole line of her seem a little too stretched to be real, like the stylized portrait of a lady. It wasn't an ugly effect at all; there was nothing ugly about her, from her diamond face and her choppy blonde haircut.

Apparently noticing his assessing gaze, it twirled, holding out her hands. The short black skirt she was wearing flared and he got a flash of pale thigh. "Like what you see? It is a good body. Model who sold her soul."

It grinned. "Worth it, I think. Anyway, we took it back when she was finished with it – died in a plane crash while she was young so it's still cute"

There was a pause and the entire person seemed to flicker and Dean saw horrible wounds – her hair burned half off, blisters, blood. And then she was normal again.

"Well. Sort of cute."

"Where's Sam?" Dean had enough of this mysteriously-not-trying-to-kill-him perverted demon. "Tell me or--"

"You'll hit me with your stick?" It still looked amused.

"Yes," Dean said. "I'm going to hit you with my stick."

He did his best to make that threatening, but the demon just rolled its eyes again. " _Anyway_ , I really like this body – I can eat as much as I want and it doesn't gain a pound. Bitch like that deserves hell, don't you think?"

"Dude," Dean said. "You are the chattiest fucking demon ever. Where is my brother?"

"Why, so you can fuck him?" At his expression, it made an elaborate surprised face, one of its hands delicately over its mouth. "Oh. Was I not supposed to mention that?"

Dean felt like snarling. "What do you want for him?"

"Nothing."

He was going to punch that fucking smile off in a second, regardless of the total idiocy of the idea.

"Why don't you take a seat?" it said, and gestured to their left. Like a page turning, Dean found himself in front of a groaning table, full of glistening food. It smelled delicious.

There was a large platter in the middle, with big pieces of white meat in rows like the steps of the capital building. Bits of skin and dark meat glistened around the sides like Dad always used to cut the turkey, the fun and unhealthy bits closer to forks with the good-for-you stuff in the center. A bright clump of what looked like cranberry sauce sat next to it, keeping the gravy company. A plate was filled with strips of spongy dark meat, delicately pink in the middle, surrounded by caramelized onions the colour of Werther's. There was more, so much more, and Dean's stomach seemed to lurch toward it. If it could, it would totally be abandoning ship right now to go get that prize.

Dean himself turned to glare at the demon, tearing his sight away from the food. He read that myth about the pomegranate in high school. Also, based on context clues, he figured this demon was the same one as the one that had possessed the little girl. That had been one suck fucker.

"What do you want, period? What are you trying to do?"

Dean was hoping that she would monologue or something; pull the old James Bond-villain schtick. Because at this point, there was no sign of his brother and every time he tried to edge off, the very room seemed to fold around itself, like a Moebius strip.

"Nothing." It shrugged and its smile became even more predatory, showing a lot of teeth. "I just like fucking with you."

"Seriously?"

"You have no idea how boring hell gets," it said, sitting down to its own repast. It—she—whatever reached over and grabbed a covered bowl, opening it and looking pleased. There were several dark red blobs in there. "By the way, these are really good. Eggs poached in a combination of red wine and human digestive juices. Delicious. The gastrique I made with the acid just gives it that right amount of tanginess, you know?"

Dean stepped back helplessly, the aroma of the feast shifting in his nose to smell a little like a graveyard. He glanced at the meat and suddenly fury overpowered any sense of self-preservation he had and he roared. "Is that Sam? Oh my god--"

"Tsk tsk," the demon said, waving his hand. Dean found himself hurtling back, pressed against the wall with an impossible weight on his chest. "None of that language in here."

Dean breathed in quickly, prepared to start chanting in Latin. An apple flew off a basket of produce on the table and wedged itself firmly in Dean's mouth. No matter how hard he tried to bite down, the flesh wouldn't give. It was sweet, but sickly. Like someone had made an approximation of a ripe apple, but tried to improve it, tried to make it sweeter, and only made it totally foul.

"Yes," the demon said. "This is Sam. A particularly bountiful harvest, may I add. He's a big boy."

"These—" it said, holding up a platter "-- are sweetbreads. Now pay attention, because this is the sort of culinary education that it seems like no Americans have. Especially not your family, man. You guys single-handedly keep Waffle House in business."

"Anyway, anyway," it said, shaking it off and jerking the platter a little bit. What looked like fried meat shifted in its garnish of lettuce, but didn't look too unsteady. "These are sweetbreads. In this case they are fried, after being breaded with a mixture of panko breadcrumbs and beautiful crumbly parmesan. The black truffle vinaigrette goes particularly well with it. These sweetbreads, my friend, are your little brother's thymus gland, pancreas and throat. Mmmm."

Too late, he thought, feeling anesthetized.

Too late.

Now it was time for him to die. He bit down hard enough of the unforgiving apple to make his jaw ache. It was sour, like vomit in the back of his throat.

It was still chatting about-- god. He couldn't even--

"The tricky thing about kidneys is to avoid the smell of piss. Soaking them in milk does it fine, makes them tender too." She paused, looking at him curiously. "Oh, Dean. Chill out! You're only making life more fun for me and I'm sure you don't want that."

She popped an eyeball into her mouth, leaning back and pushing her chair away from the table with a loud scrape.

"You asked me earlier what I wanted and the answer's simple. Some fun – your family's just too much fun. From your dad, who I stole from Bob-- Bob, that's your yellow-eyed mom-killing demon. Best name ever, huh? Anyway, whatever. Your dad was fascinating and tasty, but he smelled so old and he was just so willing to give up. He had given up, that's what I got him at all. You, though, precious. You and your brother looked just delicious."

The demon sauntered up to him and then reached to touch his face. At the first brush of fingers (her skin was unnaturally hot) she hissed and sprang back. "Oooh. That witch of yours is clever. Preventing you from being touched. That's okay, though, I have other entertainments."

She turned quickly and studied the table, leaning over to grab a small bowl filled with green and leafy plants, cucumbers and strips of meat.

"Thai salad," she said, vaguely. "Basil, fish sauce, cucumbers and stuff. Tasty."

She took a considering munch and then snapped her fingers.

Sam appeared lying on top of the table, gasping. His face was contorted in pain, all his muscles tense and twisting. Dean felt something release in his chest with a wet snap and his eyes suddenly stung with tears – it wasn't good enough, though. He was still tied to the wall and that was his brother on that table, covered in food, writhing in pain.

Dean thought he had been dead and still wasn't entirely sure he was wrong

He made noises behind his makeshift gag, desperate to move, desperate to get to him.

It was like every atom of his being was vibrating in place, attracted to Sam magnetically. Like they needed to share electrons, he thought a little bit hysterically. Dean had always been good at physics.

Pressing against the power holding him back, he realized that he was able to shift ever so slightly. It was like he was being held up by super-strong Jello, but it did give. It was minuscule, but it was give.

The demon had its back to Dean. It was currently running a long pale hand down Sam's heaving stomach; it was smearing chocolate from one of the dishes in its path, like a slug with slime. The food that had been on the table was now in total wreckage. Sam had crushed most of it and there were pieces of broken plates and disgusting, mixed food. From a cursory glance, however, it had appeared as if all the meat had disappeared.

Dean's stomach protested. Sam had been that meat. And now that Sam was there, rolling crazy eyes, and it all seemed too much. And Sam just looked straight at him and his eyes were totally blank.

God, those familiar brown eyes and they looked like a piece of paper, flat and white and totally, totally not his baby brother. He hoped – he _knew_ \-- he was invisible. It wasn't that Sam didn't recognize him. It wasn't.

The demon was crooning at Sam and suddenly climbed on the table, its knee sinking into a cake coated with some sort of dark frosting, the consistency of chocolate ganache. It squelched around its weight and stained its perfect porcelain legs brown. It looked like she'd been kneeling in shit.

It straddled Sam and leaned down to lick a bit of sauce off his cheek. After that, it laughed low in its chest and threw a glance back at Dean. "I bet this gets you hard, doesn't it, boy?"

Dean shook his head and felt like he couldn't possibly hate the fucker more.

It laughed harder. "Oh, your eyes! I can't wait to pluck them out and have a taste."

It turned back to Sam and leaned down, biting his shoulder. Dean could see his skin in its teeth, distended. "But for now, I'm hungry. This one took all his lovely meat right out of my belly. I think I'm going to need some more meat."

It rolled its hips meaningfully. "You can watch if you like. Regardless, even if you close your eyes, you are most certainly going to hear."

Sam pressed his hips upward, but it looked more frantic than lustful. His eyes were still blank, blank, blank and Dean did close his eyes to avoid them.

He told himself it was to concentrate.

Dean was still pressing into the substance (or whatever it was, it was easiest for him to think of his restraints as some sort of tangible material) and had managed to loosen it up enough to move his hand. He wasn't sure if it was his physical persistence or willpower that was managing to move it, but either way, he would get free.

The club in his hand seemed to work better than just his body, so he twisted it around, pressing, pressing, hoping.

He hears the slick sounds of flesh against flesh, a dry whisper that must be the demon taking its clothes of. Sam wasn't wearing any clothes – just the fear that was rolling off of him in tangible waves, battering Dean even as his eyes were screwed tightly closed and he was doing his best to totally ignore the events outside his mind.

With a burst of will, he managed to shift the club such that it is against his chest. And then he throws himself against it. The club suddenly cut through the magic like butter and his eyes snapped open. It was clear why it worked this time – the demon was distracted, her head thrown back and sinking slowly down onto Sam's cock.

They are lying in a bed of food, all brightly colored, and Dean could see blood on Sam from where a shard of glass sliced his back, but the most garish color of them all is the purple of his cock. His feet stuttered for a moment as he takes the image in and then he _roared_.

The demon twisted around to look at him, its face comically surprised for a moment before he brutally slammed the club into her face. The jolt went all the way up Dean's shoulder and he can only grimly smile at the sudden destruction of that pretty face.

He realized he didn't have much time, so he threw himself on Sam, both of them sliding off the table on the remains of liver and salad and cake and a feast of horrors. Dean hit his fist hard against his hip and he can feel the crack of the ball and a sudden boiling hotness against his skin.

He clung tight to his brother and before they even hit the floor, they are gone.


	5. Chapter 5

He didn't remember returning to Missouri's house or being let out of the devil's trap or anything at all, really. By the time he woke up, he was already in the bed full of lemons. It was bright and smelled clean, just like the last time he'd woken up in Missouri's care. He had the faint feeling of deja vu as he pulled himself up from the bed.

This time, though, the weight that had lodged in his stomach like a tapeworm for the past week or so was much, much lighter. Nearly gone – save the fact that he remembered the way Sam's eyes looked Down There.

That memory prompted him to get out of bed and pull on a shirt. His pants hadn't been removed, his loosened and he was going to wear them until he realized they were stained with food – that was unacceptable. He'd probably have to burn them to get those stains out.

He fished another pair out of his duffle bag, steeled himself, and made his way down stairs.

Only to see Missouri sitting at the kitchen table alone, with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. She looked up and smiled at him.

"Sleeping beauty emerges."

"Oh god," he said, closing his eyes momentarily. "How long was I asleep?"

She checked her watch. "Thirty hours or so. You needed it. Hungry?"

"No!" he shouted, and then felt a little sheepish. "I'm alright."

She snorted. "Coffee, then?"

She was still beaming at him, her eyes constantly searching his face as if she was not quite ready to believe that he was actually alive. It hit him, then, that Missouri had been fairly sure she was sending Dean to his death. He looked away, feeling awkward, and scratched the back of his head.

"Yeah," he said after a moment. "Coffee would be great."

"It's in the pot," she said, pointing and returning to her newspaper. He went and fixed himself a cup, wondering where his brother was. Missouri seemed totally relaxed, which was probably a good thing, but he really fucking wanted to know.

"Hey, where's Sam?" he said, deciding there was no rational need for subtlety.

She paused a moment with the coffee halfway to her mouth and then took a sip.

"Sleeping," she said. "Across the hall from your room."

He set his coffee cup on the counter and said, gesturing to the stairs. "I'm just gonna go check on him. Okay?"

He didn't wait for her to nod and went up the stairs too fast, taking two at time. His bare feet slapped and made too much noise and he opened Sam's door with a velocity that would have caused a crash had he not carefully allowed his foot to get smashed instead.

Sam was lying still in the bed.

He was stretched out and seemed way too big for the amount of space he had, swallowing the nautical themed room with the length of his legs, the way one hand dangled, looking vulnerable, off the edge of the bed. Sam's face was peaceful, blank. He wasn't even screwing up his eyes, they were just closed.

Dean took a step forward; let the door close behind him. He went to Sam's bed and lifted up the sheet, placed his hands on Sam's ribs.

He felt warm and real and solid, but god, so skinny. Dean could feel the in-and-out of Sam's breath, which was bizarrely comforting. Sam was so still he looked sort of dead. Dean stroked his skin, liking the way it felt soft and warm beneath his hands – there wasn't even any of the constant underlying guilt about feeling that way about his little brother; this was not about that.

This was about reassuring himself that Sam was alive, was no longer sticky with food residue or – other things he could be sticky with. He seemed clean enough, but Dean felt the need to clean him up more.

He went to the bathroom, ignored the stack of magazines in the basket and the cluttered sink and the old plastic shower cover with ducks on it. Grabbing a washcloth, he soaked it gently in warm water and went to go bathe his brother off.

At the first touch of wet, Sam sighed a little bit in his sleep. Dean froze, not even breathing, until Sam made some unintelligible smacking noises and went right back to bed. He bathed his brother, washed him even cleaner and then left him to dry.

Dean felt like he, too, needed a shower.

\---

When he came back downstairs, his hair was curling slightly at the back of his neck, still damp. Barefoot, in a pair of Sam's old sweatpants and a ratty tee shirt. If asked, he'd just say he liked them too big.

Missouri was right where he left her, except reading Business instead of the Sports Page. The coffee pot was also considerably emptier.

"Do you ever move?" he asked, moving into the kitchen and opening the fridge. "Can I have a piece of toast or something?"

"Feeling better, I see. How's your brother?" she said. "And you can fix yourself some toast if you want some, the bread's in the bread basket and the butter's in the butter bin."

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," he said, and made himself breakfast.

\---

Sam didn't wake up the whole day. Every once in a while, Dean would go up to check and see if he had stirred, but he rarely even shifted in the bed.

By noon, Dean stopped leaving the room and just watched him.

This lasted for about an hour, at which point he got bored and started reading; he still didn't leave the room, though, not till it was dark and late and hungry. Then he went down for dinner.

\---

The next day he woke up in the same room, filled with lemons and smelling clean, too bright.

He dressed, went to check on his brother (still asleep) and then went downstairs for breakfast.

After he had finished eating, Missouri prevented him from going back upstairs saying that her car needed fixin' and would he be so good as to do it for her? He would be so good, he said, and he went outside to fix the car.

Once the old Volvo was running good again, Missouri told him about a door that wasn't quite shutting and would he be so good as to fix it for her? He would be so good, he said, and he went to fix the door.

That took a while, but once the door was shutting good again, he sneaked away quickly as to get a chance to see his brother. He peeked in the room and shut the door behind him (this door worked fine and closed with a snick) and kneeled at the side of the bed.

Sam was still sleeping and he looked peaceful. Dean didn't like peaceful – he wouldn't really relax until Sam opened his eyes and there was Sam behind them.

Then the door opened. Missouri told him about the rotting porch-- and before she could even ask him, he agreed.

\---

The next day, Sam didn't wake up.

Missouri found some more jobs for Dean to do.

\---

The day after that, Sam still didn't wake up.

The house was too pristine and Dean had learned how to make cheese grits and wash a floor properly. He had watched her with a couple of clients, reading hands and telling fortunes and occasionally just talking, enjoying each other's company. Missouri had always introduced Dean as a friend and the stream of ladies would always smile and treat him like one, but he never managed to relax out of a stiff slouch, or say anything longer than a single syllable. All this had happened yesterday and as Dean woke up in the lemon-filled room, clean smelling and too bright, he felt like he was going to have to hit something.

Eventually, Missouri sighed (handed him a cup of coffee) and said, "Go on and get a job with the auto-shop on Richmond."

It was morning and Dean wasn't quite awake yet.

"What?" he said, pouring some sugar into his black coffee. That was the way he liked it.

"Get a job with the auto-shop on Richmond. Kirby has been looking for guys and as long as you let him know that it is only a temporary and you have no idea when you're gonna leave."

Dean looked at Missouri for a long moment, feeling irrationally angry. Her serene demeanor was somehow infuriating, like it was her fault Sam was still sleeping, had barely moved. He was looking malnourished, too – Dean's been dribbling water in his mouth, but before long, they were going to need to do something.

"Okay," he said, finally, hating the sense of permanence the idea of accepting a job gave him. "Okay."

\---

Sam woke up while Dean was at his first day of work. Kirby had taken to him quickly, and Dean didn't mind him so much either. Dean was underneath a car when the phone rang and Kirby went to get it.

It was Missouri.

"Yeah, Kirbs, I quit," Dean said, sliding out on the crawler with delight.

"Not so fast, son. You don't know how long it is going to take him to recover enough to leave," Kirby said. He spoke really slowly, so this sentence was long enough for Dean to clean up and stabilize the car he was working on.

Kirby didn't know the full extent of what happened, so Dean felt comfortable enough ignoring him.

"Sam bounces back," Dean said. He wiped his hands on a cloth, grinning like a fool. "Kid's made of rubber."

Kirby shook his head as Dean left, starting the Impala before the door was even closed.

\---

Sam wasn't talking.

He was sitting at the kitchen table silently and Missouri was trying to convince him to open his mouth, let in a spoonful of grits. Dean hesitated at the kitchen door a moment, totally shocked and feeling like somebody shot him cruelly back to earth after flying high for a long moment.

"Your brother spent a week in hell," Missouri said, somewhat sharp, without even looking up. "He's a little bit broken."

Dean paused just another moment more, gained his own composure and then took the spoon away from Missouri.

"I'll do this," he said. "I did it when he was an infant and I'll do it now – so long as he doesn't have to be burped, too."

"No," she said, standing up obediently. "I think he'll be fine with just the feeding."

She was smiling, oddly, distantly, and didn’t look back at him when she left the room.

Dean stared at Sam for a long moment before he moved, but Sam didn’t stare back. Sam was looking at the table, his fingers picking at the wood, not appearing to notice anything, much less his older brother or the empty spoon he held. He was sitting easily in the chair, though, his balance fine.

"Sam?" Dean said, a bit meaner than he attended.

Sam looked up at the noise and glanced at Dean, then resumed staring at his fingers and the growing divot in the table. His face was completely empty.

"God," Dean said, sitting down quickly. "You are such a pussy. Wah, wah, wah – here, open—" Dean tilted Sam’s chin up and stuck the grits right in between his mouth. Sam opened obediently and Dean pressed inside. "I take a nice little breather in the fiery underworld and when I come back I'm all child like. I will never let you live – no! Don't spit it out!"

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed a napkin, wiping it up rather roughly. "I worked so hard to keep you clean when you were sleeping, not that you remember it, but you will not get dirty now."

He tossed away the napkin. It landed on the floor – he so didn't care right now. He tried to get Sam to eat another bite of grits, but Sam shut his teeth stubbornly and tossed his head back. That annoyed expression was so goddamned familiar that Dean nearly left him there to starve.

"Aren't you hungry?" Dean snapped, frustrated. "You haven't eaten for days – probably weeks!"

Sam's hand was shaking and his cheekbones unusually sharp – his face halfway to a skeleton’s, like he was already dead, like this creature was some sort of fucking zombie or vampire or something come to haunt Dean. He believed that in a silly, half-hysterical way that he tried not to examine too closely. Sam's skin had felt dry underneath the napkin, like a husk, and it was faintly yellow. He was totally either the undead or a romantic heroine, wasting away from pain.

Dean threw the spoon and it landed harshly against the wall, clattering. Sam jumped and stared at him, with wide brown eyes. Fucking _finally_ a reaction.

"Fuck you," Dean said. "Fuck you!"

He left Sam there, went up to his room, and threw himself on the bed. Felt like a teenager, felt like a bad person, didn't care. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to solve this, if it could be solved. He figured he deserved a minor nervous breakdown.

The screen door thwack-slammed as Missouri entered again. Dean fell asleep to the sound of her crooning to Sam, probably trying to calm him down.

\---

Missouri never yelled at Dean for his outburst, never even mentioned it.

Dean slept for an hour or two and then woke up. Lemons, smelling clean, etc. etc., but there was no bright morning sun; it was about sunset, and the room was red.

He went back downstairs and Sam was still silent, still blank.

"Hey, princess," he said. "Is it time for dinner?"

Missouri was fixing up what looked like chili with beans and was stirring the pot. "I assume you meant him."

"Yep," Dean said, pulling out a chair and sitting on it backwards, leaning his elbows on the top. "He looks sick."

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded, but Dean didn't get a good glance of her expression. He was too busy cataloging the small movements Sam was making; he seemed looser now, slouching a little more in his chair. His face wasn't quite so blank.

"Why do you think he is like this?" Dean said. He was still floating on a strange wave of detachment and it gave him the capacity to ask questions about his brother's condition, even as he stared at him. Dean leaned over and pulled Sam's hand away; he was about to knock over a glass of water. Sam looked at their hands but didn't try to get free.

"I think it is magic. I hope it's magic – baby, if it's not it might be harder to fix him than I thought."

Dean squeezed Sam's hand, probably too hard, because Sam made a face.

"He was only in there a week!" Oops, there goes that detachment that had served as some sort of buffer. His fury came crashing down on him and he had to release Sam's hand before he actually hurt him, digging his nails into the wood to ground himself with the small pains of pressure and the sting of splinters.

"Time may not move the same. A week could be longer for him-- maybe not. It could be that they sucked his mind from him--" Dean was faced with an array of uncomfortable images about sucking; whether it was blow jobs or marrow bones, anything that bitch of a demon would do to his brother was unacceptable. "-- Through the pain. I'm hoping that's not the case, though. I'm hoping there was some sort of spell done on him to keep him docile; especially while you were there."

"Aren't you gonna do some testing or something?" Dean said, managing to corral his voice down from anger. He wasn't angry with Missouri. She'd done what she thought was best and it was his fault, anyway. His fault for not pressing on Sam when he noticed he was going sort of crazy from those dreams.

Sam shifted in his seat, leaning a little forward to rest on his elbows. That small movement allowed Dean to ground himself, focus on what needed to be done. "Can I help?"

"I'm going to start working on something tomorrow. Whatever happens, I don't want to hurt him worse by accident."

"God forbid," he said. He moved his chair closer to Sam so that he could rest his hand on his shoulder; he preemptively started glaring at Missouri's back to avoid any commentary. Sam didn't shake off the contact; Missouri didn't even seem to notice when she turned around.

"The chili is almost done," Missouri said. "Toast or rice."

"Rice'll be easier for us to make him get down," Dean said.

"Only if you clean up the mess," Missouri said, leaning down to get the bag of Uncle Ben's from the cupboard near the floor. She started boiling water and poured the rice in.

"That'll take a while," Dean said.

"You'll live. All you've been doing is sleeping all day anyway."

"Oh, sure," Dean said, "Very nice. I do nothing to contribute."

"You could get a job."

Missouri clearly wanted him out of the house; perhaps she was on a misguided quest to save him from himself, or something. Trying to get him to avoid brooding. It's not like that would help, but she had a mulish look on her face and he figured he probably would have to concede something.

"If he's not better in a week, I'll go back to Kirby and ask him to take me back."

"Good," she said, and stood up to stir the rice.

\---

Later that night, after they cleaned up the bright red chili that Sam managed to get everywhere, Dean helped Sam up to bed, chattering away.

At the moment, he was relating the plot of the 1938 classic, _The Terror of Tiny Town._ It was a western starring only midgets. To be frank, the plot was not the point, but Dean was telling him anyway, because he had found a copy a few years back, only to be scorned by his brother telling him it was totally offensive.

Pfft. There was _nothing not to like_.

He led Sam to the bed and sat him down, still chatting.

"Okay, so, there is Buck Lawson and he's the hero, right? This is made clear by the fact that he wears entirely white. Apparently, he's also a virgin." He kneeled down and slipped off the house shoes that someone had put on Sam. Not him, for sure. He hid them under the bed so that travesty can't happen again.

"Anyway, Buck is a cool guy and all. He sings a lot and he's romancing Nancy, who's so good to bring him food. Nancy? Also a midget. Oh, and they all ride Shetland ponies –hey, bring your arms up." Sam seemed docile, allowing Dean to maneuver him like an overlarge doll. He took off his shirt and looked away, guilty. Now that he was mobile, apparently it was time for Dean's entirely inappropriate feelings to come back.

Oh, goody. They had great timing.

"Oh, and there is a duck. This duck walks backwards and is named Fitz and bites butts. No, seriously – that was my reaction, too."

Sam didn't have a reaction. He merely lay down as requested and tolerated Dean wrestling with the sheets a while to get him underneath it, before deciding fuck it and turned off the fan to prevent chill. It wasn't the same reaction at all, but, whatever. Those were just details.

"And there's a lynch mob. Actually, I don't really remember the plot to relay it to you, but I must say – that DVD was the best garage sale buy ever."

Dean stood up and felt like an old man, his back aching just a little bit more than he was comfortable.

"Good night," he said, and turned off the light.

\---

  
He was jerked awake by screaming. Wordless screams, loud and wet, like they were clawing out of someone's throat. Dean went for the gun and ran to Sam's room, both actions happening reflexively. When he threw the door open ( _SLAM_ ), it was clear the weapon wasn't necessary.

Sam was alone in the room, shrieking, his whole body twisting up in the attempt to shake off whatever is bothering him. Some selfish bit of Dean was happy to see him make some sort of noise, even if it was incoherent, but the rest of him was about to shoot something just to distract Sam from his own pain.

He threw himself on top of his brother, trying to use his superior coherency to hold Sam's bulk down. Sam was bucking like a rodeo-horse, tossing and turning and gulping for air. Eventually, the screams die down and are replaced by incomprehensible mumbling. Dean pressed his face so close to Sam's mouth he felt the brush of air from Sam's lungs, but still, he couldn't understand what he was saying.

There was no way to understand.

This dream looked worse than the last one Dean saw, way back when, before the disappearance and everything (literally) went to hell. He was dwelling on that, trying to hold his brother's vibrating body to the bed and sooth him with nonsense words. It was worse this time. That didn't make any sense.

Such was his focus on Sam that he didn't even hear Missouri until she spoke. "It's a spell."

"Oh, thank god," Dean said and some of Sam's tension drained out of him. He paused, a moment, and then repeated deliberately. "God."

He calmed even further, his babbling reduced to whimpers.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, God, God, God, Jehovah, Adonai, God. Jesus Christ Superstar. God. Our Father, our Lord, the Big Kahuna. The Baker of the pie in the sky. Shiva, Osiris, Loki. Christ Almighty, Christ Have Mercy, Amen."

Dean's experiment soothed Sam even further, to the point where his sleep looked almost natural again. It was like a lullaby, or the way that they used to take Sam in the car when he was fussing as an infant. Red light: wail. Green light: sleep as peaceful as an angel's.

"Sleep as peaceful as an angels," he said. This one was a prayer.

He pulled himself carefully off Sam, trying real hard not to wake him and still muttering names of the divine – _St. Patrick, Seth, Anansi, God, Jesus, God, Ptah, Cybele, Athena, Mars._

"I take it he needs an exorcism," Dean said, finally, turning to Missouri.

"He needs an exorcism."

She nodded gravely, but she lacked that certain dignity. Her hair was a mess and she looked bone tired, in the same dress she'd been wearing for dinner and reading glasses held carefully in one hand. Dean thought she looked kind of hot, just then.

\---

The next morning, they woke Sam up and didn't bother to try to feed or dress him. He was sitting in the same chair that Dean had been, tied up just like Dean had been, with the devil trap above him. He took the whole ordeal fairly serenely, but he kept taking quick, wary glances at Dean, through lowered eyelashes or with a flick of his eyes. It seemed like a habit that Sam was using to comfort himself and that made him feel a little bit glowy.

Missouri handed him an old leather bound book and pointed out the page. "You should read it," she said. She didn't explain why.

"Will this hurt him?" Dean asked, trying to be light. "Wouldn't want to ruin his pretty face."

"Yes, it'll hurt him, but it won't injure him; and frankly, it probably hurts less than being under the spell, especially for a guy like Sam."

"A guy like Sam?" Dean said. He looked up from his perusal of the book, anxious to hear the answer.

"A stubborn fool," Missouri said and Dean smiled back.

They pulled up two chairs and pressed them fairly close to the edge of the Devil's trap. Missouri had a spray bottle full of holy water and a few crosses, just in case anything happened; she also had a first aid kit and various mystical herbs of healing, just in case anything happened in the other direction.

Dean glanced at Missouri; she seemed ready. Sam looked peaceful, sitting there, and he was even smiling slightly. Dean lifted up the book and opened his mouth to read --

"Wait," she said. She sounded troubled. "Dean. Demon's lie. Don't get rattled."

Dean snorted. "I have done this before, you know."

She nodded, leaned back in the chair. "Sure 'nough, you have. Go ahead."

Dean started to read.

Immediately, the chair started to rock, just slightly, just shifting, with a steady _knock, knock, knock._. Sam closed his eyes and made a noise in his throat, a strangled bird sound. His hands were clenching the armrests and Dean could trace the tension all the way up Sam's arm.

As Dean worked his way through the ritual, the vibration started to speedup until it was an oppressive noise. And then Sam snarled.

"Dean. So nice to see you again – it wasn't very nice of you to take my toy away before I had finished. Do you normally let your women go without letting them come?" It was bizarre to hear Sam like that. His voice was slick, odd, with a resonance that Dean totally didn't recognize.

"Oh wait," it said, then, and its voice was knowing. "I forgot. You aren't interested in women anymore. Or if you are – it doesn't matter. You want this body. How naughty of you; how tasty. I wish I could just eat it up. Let me give you a bit of a treat."

The demon took Sam's hand and drew it down his chest, touching his nipples and putting it his hand in his own pants, slipping it beyond the buckle. He started rubbing, his whole torso undulating in time with each movement.

Dean closed his eyes and kept on saying the fucking Latin.

Air of the room seemed too heavy and he felt like he had inadvertently sunk back into hell, only this time he could feel every square foot of pressure. His ears felt odd and he probably couldn't stand up if he tried; it was a struggle to keep reading, but managed.

He was almost at the end, now.

The demon in Sam's body had moved past screaming and words and was now just snarling wordlessly, the sound sort of faint, as if through water or in the next room.

"Amen," Dean said, and then the room was silent.

He opened his eyes, slowly, shocked to see that the room looked the same. The same wood floor, the same chair, Missouri seated unmoved next to him. She gave no indication of having heard or believed anything that had transpired; the thought made him twist up a bit, but she wasn't important now.

Sam was slumped over, breathing hard so that the whole chair was shaking, his wrists straining against the ropes. Dean leaned over and took the holy water from Missouri before leaning over and spraying him in the face.

Sam spluttered, surprised. There was no demonic hissing, though – Dean started grinning.

Sam looked up, finally, mouth parted slightly and lips bitten red. His face was wet and there were drips of water tracing a bunch of different paths; Dean couldn't tell if it was sweat or the remains of the holy water, or god forbid, tears.

He coughed, his whole body shaking, and then said: "Hey."

Dean smiled, so happy he could spit, and said. "I'm going to kick your ass.”

\---

They untied Sam and he asked to sleep. Dean allowed it easily; it wouldn't do to be too clingy, and he could totally sneak in and watch him while he's resting, just to assure himself that Sam is actually alive and back.

Sam went to the bathroom, washed up and Dean lurked in the kitchen. Missouri had disappeared, presumably to give them some sort of privacy, and he was trying to find something to eat. He was halfway through gathering the materials for an omelet when he felt a touch on his arm.

"Hey," Sam said.

"Can you say anything else?"

"Hey," Sam repeated. He was smiling a little oddly and the touch on Dean's arm didn't move. Dean looked at it, oddly, and shifted away. Sam's looked down, his lips a little tight.

Dean felt a little squirmy, a little odd. Dread crept up on him. Maybe this would be the conversation where Sam revealed that he was conscious of all the secrets the demon had revealed; maybe this was the conversation when he would ask Dean to go away.

Or maybe – on an alternate note of freak out --maybe Sam would be pissed at him for not looking for Dad. Maybe this'll be _that_ conversation instead-- Sam coughed and brought Dean's attention back to his shuffling.

"I wanted to say thanks," Sam said, after a moment. He reached out and clapped Dean on the shoulder, his thumb resting on Dean's skin. "Thanks."

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment, cataloged the way he was being so touchy, the way he looked a little nervous, a little squirmy, a little odd himself.

Slowly, Dean began to smile. He reached up to ruffle Sam's hair, allowing his hand to slip down to briefly brush a thumb against Sam's lips. He chickened out of doing anything else, but judging at the way Sam was smiling, it was enough for now.

"No problem, brother."

\---

"Missouri," he said, after a long moment of silence. "Hope you'll forgive me if we don't come back to visit real soon."

"Yeah," she said. "I forgive you already. Here—" She handed him a parcel. It was squishy, sort of like a pillow, and felt crinkly inside. "Herbs. In case you get in trouble again--"

"Which we will."

"Which you will," she agreed, nodding. "There's also a little booklet I drew up with diagrams and uses and everything; also, some seed. Sam seemed to like working in the garden. Maybe y'all can--"

"Yeah," Dean said, cutting her off. "We'll think about it."

He looked over to the Impala; Sam was already inside, sleeping with his head on the door. God. His brother was a fucking narcoleptic. He slept peacefully, though, like back when he was in that coma, back when they weren't sure if he was ever gonna wake up.

It was nice to see him sleep peacefully.

Missouri had to repeat his name five times before Dean looked away. "Yeah?" he said, finally.

"Goodbye."

Dean hugged her tight, squeezing. "Goodbye."

He got in the car, turned on the music and began to drive away. The lemon air-freshener rocking back and forth as they left the driveway. Dean didn't look back.

Either the motion or the noise disturbed Sam and he blinked wearily, "Hmm?"

"We're on the road again," Dean said. "Just can't wait to get on the road again."

Sam snorted and pulled himself into a better posture. "Lame."

"It's a classic," Dean protested. He felt insufferably cheerful and he turned up the music, resisting the urge to bob his head. Sam would mock him.

"Hey," Sam said, after a moment of music and road and contentment. He stared resolutely out the window, his face blank. "I could go for some food."

Dean groaned.

##


End file.
